


Things That Matter More Than Winning

by timtamtawney



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, Epistolary, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28181913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timtamtawney/pseuds/timtamtawney
Summary: Post S1 Divergence. After losing the Battle of Bright Moon, Catra gets the message - her feelings for Adora have never been mutual. She throws herself into her work and the war goes on, neither side securing a decisive advantage over the other.Years later, on a covert mission, she finds a letter addressed to her from an old friend. From opposite ends of the battlefield, they begin an unlikely correspondence.Written in the style of This Is How You Lose the Time War.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 120
Kudos: 235





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergence details:
> 
> I thought the civilians in season 1/2 who disliked both the Horde and the Princess Alliance had an interesting perspective. In this universe, neither side is good or evil. After season 1, Catra chooses to be driven by a desire to be a good Force Captain rather than spite, so she never falls as far as she did in canon.

Catra peers through smoke sputtering from the shattered skeleton of a nameless village. Nameless to her, anyway.

She wipes her claws on her pants and sighs. The battle was straightforward – there’s a cleanliness, a godliness in a battle that goes according to plan, even when the plan is to leave no survivors. The Horde fights to free Etheria’s commoners from the despotic Princesses, yes, but she’s long since learned that the Horde is willing to accept a lot of collateral damage.

Not like it’s on her head.

Catra turns over the mauve crystal in her hand, her fingertips tracing the delicate lithography decorating its surface. Ancient technology, yes, but priceless to the war effort, she’s told. That is why this village had to be sacked – no use in any survivors telling the Princesses what the Horde was after in the nearby First Ones ruin.

Catra paces the battlefield, hunting for any signs of life. The Princesses hadn’t been aware of this mission, right? The enemy “army” had been nothing more than an ill-equipped militia. Yet Catra senses something out of place – or rather, something in a place it shouldn’t be. Her tank divisions had razed the village, but bodies were suspiciously absent from the buildings. En route, the woods had put up just enough resistance that the operation was delayed by nearly an hour.

And there’s a familiar scent in the air, of ozone and superoxide and radical oxygen. Magic.

The Princess Alliance’s agents rarely meet Catra on the field of battle – Catra scarcely participates in pitched skirmishes anymore, anyway. Too many uncontrolled variables to risk the Horde’s second-in-command. There is one Princess, however, that does not fear her. Catra knows her like the back of her own hand. Or used to, at least.

If _she_ was here, Catra’s victory is an illusion. Her enemy has never been conniving, but she knows how to get the job done. Catra needs proof, so she dives back into the ruined temple, searching for evidence that the Horde snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

Her eyebrow arches as she returns to her extraction point. On the ground, she finds a First Ones bracelet. It shouldn’t be here – Catra is far too experienced and far too observant to have missed it the first time. Here there should be a loose coil of rope or a set of claw marks in the ground. Not a First Ones data reader.

The air is heavy with magic and smoke. It burns her lungs. She inhales deeply, heart pounding. _She’s here._

Or is she? Catra’s ears perk up – stealth had never been her opponent’s strong suit and as far as she can tell, Catra is alone in the ruin. She hears the skittering of insects, the wind rustling overgrown vines, but her enemy is conspicuously absent. She glances again at the data reader and the crystal clenched in her fist.

This is a trap, of course.

The smart play here would be to leave. To report to Hordak that the data crystal had been destroyed or was never there in the first place. But she is curious – if she brought this damnably fake data crystal to Hordak, what would it say? Is it a message meant for him? Or for her?

She _must_ know. She is addicted to knowing.

Catra’s mouth curls into a grim smile as she fastens the data reader around her wrist. She presses the crystal into the bracelet’s inlay and watches a hologram splatter the shadow-mottled grey metal walls with jeweled light. The hologram flickers and First Ones writing rearranges into a script she recognizes.

Catra reads the letter once, twice, and then the data crystal dissolves to dust.

* * *

When I caught wind of a Horde excursion to a forgotten village in a dusty backwater of the Whispering Woods, I hoped you’d be leading it. What you’re looking for, it’s First Ones desalination tech, isn’t it? Be rest assured that Alliance gunboat patrols will be making good use of these blueprints.

You know who I am. You know just as well as I do that we have unfinished business.

I confess that I’ve been following your career with great interest. Your meteoric ascent after Shadow Weaver’s deposition (Breaking her mask was you, right? What’s next, kicking old Hordak’s cane out from under him?) has reenergized me. I was getting bored with the war, to be frank – magic cuts through Horde war machines like a knife through butter (like claws through tempered steel, maybe? I don’t remember Horde kitchens having much butter, but I digress).

But then you took over. We kept winning battles, but all of a sudden we were fighting in the wrong places, missing a flank here or a covert operation in a First Ones ruin there. You gave the Horde some staying power, a method to their madness, and I find myself stretched to my limit again.

I admit that I’ve come to miss you on the battlefield, so it gives me great pleasure to know that this knockoff data crystal will self-destruct before returning to Hordak. These words will be a memory and to recall them, you’ll have no choice but to admit me into your mind’s eye. There’s no shame in it – I’ve been there before, haven’t I? No need for embarrassment, you’ve been in mine, as well.

My superiors do not know that I’ve left you this message. Will you report this “fraternization” to yours? Either way, I admit I am looking forward to your reply.

I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but today is my win, wouldn’t you say? However, I truly respect your tactics – your mind makes this war seem less like drudgery. For example, your tank approach this morning was truly superb. It’s a shame that the Princess of Plumeria has already begun training the Woods to grow tread-piercing burrs. I should thank you for teaching us how to defeat the Horde, really.

Regardless, this letter is getting long in the tooth. It was fun distracting you, though.

Your enemy-cum-epistoler,

She-Ra

* * *

The dusty screen of a primeval shield battery flickers apologetically at Adora.

Adora has never been much for lingering after an engagement. She moves at a mile a minute, engaging the Horde with finesse or ferocity depending on the situation, and only takes time to relish her success like tea – between the biggest meals.

Her curiosity makes her linger, however, because she doesn’t want to make a habit out of losing.

She found the battery deep underneath a First Ones outpost nestled under the diamond-glass sands of the Crimson Waste, south of the Valley of the Lost. Adora observed that the outpost seemed untouched – though it’s not like anyone out here cared about the First Ones, anyway.

The shield battery appeared operational. Adora’s magic would breathe it back to life and it would find gainful employment protecting a runestone or a village or a general somewhere. The opportunity never existed however, because now that she’s exhausted herself by pouring negentropy into the device, all she sees is a blinking “Troubleshoot?” icon.

So Adora waves her sword into a writing tablet and presses the icon. She reads the message and her eyes widen, but she tosses her head back into a full-throated laugh that echoes down the halls of the outpost and dies on crimson dunes. She feels a familiar sort of feeling, a hair-raising tickle that gnaws at her even as it fills her with excitement.

The sword is in her hand again, message unrecorded, and she slices the shield battery to ribbons.

* * *

Dearest She-Ra,

Pardon me if I seem unpracticed at keeping correspondence – soldiers have little time for socialization, and when we do, we converse on the training ground through strikes and blows. You wouldn’t remember any of that, though, would you?

There is a Princess here, however, who has explained to me the basics. I can imagine your enormous forehead wrinkling at the thought, so allow me to clarify – I convinced her that I was writing to my family. In a way, I am, aren’t I?

To our shared business, then. I apologize that you wasted your magic powering up a useless shield battery. I wonder what this device might have thwarted. An attack on Dryll? An assassination attempt in the Kingdom of Snows? Not that we’re planning anything, of course. My methods for disrupting a piece of First Ones tech? The Horde has a very savvy engineering team, but of course you know that already. Technology puts power in the hands of the people, after all. This is why the Horde will win.

I’m surprised, honestly, that you risked exhausting yourself without any backup. Solo ops were never really your thing, were they? Always had to be leading a team, if I remember right. I suppose that Officer Octavia would be glad to hear that her training sessions didn’t go to waste. Still, I have you right where I want you. Rather, my team has you right where I want you.

Just kidding. By the time you read this, I will be back in the Fright Zone and my engineers will be developing personal shielding for the Horde infantry.

I imagine you laughing at my joke. When was the last time I saw you laugh? The Battle of Bright Moon? I remember you and your friends laughing – at me, I think – after your Princess magic drowned my battalion and washed an entire army away. You were unbowed and fierce, even when I had your back to the wall.

Imagine me laughing at you, this time. You think you’re in control of this, that you can send me a letter hoping to find and exploit a vulnerability in the Horde. Now I’ve returned the favor. Who is exploiting whom, I wonder? Is it the Horde that’s composed with a note of discord at its core, or is it the Rebellion? Let’s find out. I know you can’t resist having the last word.

Send my regards to the primus inter pares, would you?

Fondly, 

The Force Captain

* * *

Catra navigates a warren of Mystacorian mores.

 _A real maze would be easier_ , she thinks. She’s never been good at remembering rules. Even when she does, it is a hassle to follow them. Mystacor traditions are almost alien to the rest of Etheria – a ruler voted on by the people, magic is commonplace instead of concentrated in the hands of a powerful few, and perhaps strangest of all – they maintain neutrality in the war.

Catra suspects that they wouldn’t remain neutral for long, however, if Catra were to be caught exploring Arxia. She extracts herself from a conversation with a young sorceress, hoping she didn’t promise anyone her hand in marriage, and follows the pre-planned route into Mystacor’s vast catacombs. Each faction maintains a different story about why Arxia was abandoned; the sorcerers claim that it was voluntary, while the Princesses argue that the First Ones technology keeping it airborne was failing until the sorcerers poured their own magic into the island. The Horde ordinarily would have little interest in floating islands, yet…

She has her mission. She’s investigating rumors of a First Ones crystal thought to be a failsafe for a hidden superweapon. Her intelligence teams haven’t yet identified where – or even _what_ – the superweapon is, but she doesn’t really care. So long as she stays on script, the rebels will never be able to use it.

She wonders if She-Ra – if Adora – ever read her letter. She enjoyed writing it – she had nearly forgotten how taunting Adora gave victory a delicious piquancy. Every operation she’s run since then, she’s watched her back, waiting for She-Ra’s reprisal or for Hordak to discover her breach of discipline. Neither has come. Perhaps Adora doesn’t care, after all.

Catra steps lightly between trapped marble tiles and catches a familiar scent. Oil-soaked particulate and free radical exhaust. She follows the scent-trail and finds an unassuming room in a niche far from the main halls of Arxia. A hot breeze gusts past her as she opens the door – the heady breath of raw magic, she assumes. She circles the crystal spire in the center of the room, tapping it occasionally with a single claw. The crystal sings and the chime curves along the room’s rounded walls.

Catra bares her teeth at this crystal. She doesn’t feel roiling, hair-rising magic coming off of the spire. Her eyes dart around and settle on the ceiling. She sees the password, and as her eyes widen, she understands how she’s been thwarted.

“Friend of Adora,” she murmurs resentfully, and the spire opens. She reads, she memorizes, and she leaves. The trip back to the Fright Zone is long. She’ll need the time to think of a good explanation for this disaster of an op, she muses.

* * *

Dear Feli-force Captain,

I did indeed laugh at your joke. I’m flattered that you remember me in such sharp detail – Bright Moon was years ago, and you still remember my posture, of all things? Such a flattering note deserves one in return, I think.

But first, let me apologize – the Rebellion has been aware of the Failsafe for a number of months now. We weren’t sure of its purpose, but we relocated it to Bright Moon posthaste. This crystal spire was a personal project of mine – I admit that I didn’t realize it would come in handy, but fortune favors the well-prepared, doesn’t it? Don’t worry – we don’t have a superweapon trained on the Fright Zone. I understand why you might be hesitant to trust me, but you’ll just have to have a little faith.

Oh, and letter-writing is a new skill to me, too. The pen is a mighty weapon in a Princess’s arsenal, so I’m told. Does that make our correspondence a form of sparring?

Now, a confession – my memory isn’t quite as good as yours. I watched your infiltration to refresh my mental image of you. Maybe I’m still watching as you’re reading this? Probably not. Nonetheless, I like that thing you’ve done with your hair. You never let me comb it when we were kids, so I suppose this is the next best thing.

I didn’t forget the sound of your laughter, though, so I was happy to imagine it. I look forward to your next last word,

She-Ra

* * *

Adora strives to be a calamity in disguise.

She strides through the halls of a factory clad in an ill-fitting Horde uniform – she’s a little taller than the poor soldier she knocked out on her way in. Her sword is hidden for now, sheathing her forearm in silver, gold, and cobalt bright. A Horde captain looking too closely might cite her for breaking uniform regulations, but the low-ranking infantry avoid her eyes.

She walks like she owns the place, after all.

The factory has been oozing toxic sludge into the nearby river for weeks. Out of necessity? Or is it a strategy to slowly poison the Whispering Woods from the comfort of the Fright Zone? Whatever it may be, Adora will put a stop to it. 

She finds dead heart of this place – a lonely terminal, screen lit up ephemerally as it refreshes with the latest pump rotor speeds and temperatures. Her fingers dance over the keys, entering an override code bought off of an innkeeper who overheard an infantryman whose squadmate’s boyfriend had been reassigned to sanitation duty. _B to E to C and back again._ The lock screen yields, and she’s in. 

She steps back, startled, and lifts her helmet’s visor. The password wasn't an override code at all. She’s grinning widely, and her eyes gleam electric blue, eclipsing the cold light of the screen.

* * *

Dear Princess of the Powerful Fivehead,

I nearly ran out of time composing this letter! I never expected you to strike into the Fright Zone, but the few hours you spent lingering on the border were ample time to put together a sufficient response to your last missive. I doubt I would ever be brave enough to do the opposite – someone like me would stick out in Bright Moon, after all. I am sore and red – I’d clash with all the princess pinks and purples. Hell, for all I know, bad fashion sense might even be a crime in Princess territory. Though, they do let you wear that tiara…

I will give credit where it is due – you are much subtler than one might expect an 8-foot tall Valkyrie to be. I won’t elaborate specifically how I detected your approach, but let’s just say that you smell. A lot. You never were talented at stealth when we were young, so you must have shaped up a bit in the Rebellion. Color me surprised that you’re still training rather than hosting tea parties or whatever. How does being a Princess work, anyway? Does the tiara have to stay on all the time, or is it a matter of (bad) taste?

The reason I ask is because I could have cornered you. My engineers have been working on an anti-magic emitter. Could She-Ra have weathered the blast? You could have lost your powers – for a while, at least. Long enough for the Horde to part you from that damnable sword. I know, I know – you think you would have managed to get away, somehow. I chose not to notify the engineers of your little incursion, though, and flew solo this time.

I know you think you would be doing the Woods a big favor by disabling this processing plant, but this machinery sanitizes half the wastewater in the Fright Zone. If you’d managed to succeed, not only would we have litterbox issues, the Horde would have to annex Salineas, or the Kingdom of Snows, and all of that would be on your head. And on my back. So really, I saved us both a whole lot of trouble.

Besides, I wanted to get you back for that business with the failsafe. It’s a shame I’m not around to catch a glimpse of you, though – I know that while I aged like fine wine, I’m sure you aged like grapes on the vine. Better luck next time, Hero of Etheria.

XOXO,

Catra

* * *

Catra studies a grain of sand, but cannot deduce the world.

She picks the rounded silica out from between her toes. For a moment, she rues the decision to not wear shoes in the Waste, but her real contrition is for the chain of decisions that led her here in the first place. Legends claim that the Crimson Waste contains fewer grains of sand than stars in the sky. Catra wishes desperately that were true, but here she is, surrounded by sand. So it goes.

Late in autumn, the twelve moons rise low in the sky and mark the start of the Great Hunt. The young and able-bodied warriors of the Valley of the Lost set out to stock their larders for the winter. A wholly unnecessary ritual – swear their allegiance to the Horde and Catra would have twenty ration bar synthesizers in the Valley by the end of the week, but she admires their self-reliance.

The Horde needs recruits, however, so engendering self-reliance is not her goal tonight.

Catra finds the Valley’s scullery and scurries inside. The refrigeration units are only barely functional – she notes, with grim relief, that her sabotage won’t arouse suspicion of foul play. Her claws snip at wires here and there, separating the heat pump’s warp from its weft. Steam hisses, a whirring ceases, and she knows her duty done.

Something, like a niggling in the back of her mind or a familiar tingle beneath her skin, bids her to stay and watch as the air melts into the evening heat. The thermometer ticks above six degrees Celsius and magic fills the room, cold and bright. Great blocks of ice fill the room and, carved into one’s surface is a message.

Catra traces the lettering, ridge by ridge, and carves the meaning into memory.

* * *

My curious Catra,

You catch more flies with honey, you know. Did you seriously not think of just offering these people help? This scheme seems a little convoluted – be careful, didn’t someone say that complexity killed the cat?

The thought of you capturing me overwhelmed me with nostalgia. You surprised me, though – I remember when we were young, we would always overcommit just a little for one another, show our hands before the turn. It pains me to think you’ve grown boring in your old age, my sweet vintage (you are more astringent than sweet, but I mean it in a fond way, I swear).

I’m surprised that you’re so interested in the day-to-day politicking of being a princess. Last I remember, you hated them! Or is it that you hated me with them? Is this just your newest ploy to turn me back to the Horde? By making me realize how boring it is to be a Princess?

Enough beating around the bush, though. I can read between the lines. You could have captured me, a powerful magical asset to the Rebellion, but you didn’t. You acted outside of your role as Force Captain and probably disobeyed the orders of Hordak himself. You’ve done this before, many years ago, and I admit I didn’t understand then why you let me go. You told me that it wasn’t because you liked me. If not, then why?

As an aside, my friends and I do have tea every afternoon. Have you ever had tea with biscuits? Or anything aside from a ration bar? I imagine you’d like real food. Anyway, tea parties aren’t really to my taste, to be honest, but I have to play the part of She-Ra, princess parties included. Still, tea and biscuits are much better than ration bars, grey or brown. I still don’t get why you preferred the brown ones.

I won’t make you read between the lines this time. I have questions: What are you trying to get out of this game we’re playing? Is it a game at all?

Do you miss me?

Please, as a favor to our past friendship, be candid with me. If you cannot, please do not respond at all.

Best,

Adora

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may come out to five chapters in the end, or the fourth chapter might just be really long. Stay tuned!

Adora stands at the prow of a sea skimmer, pondering tight lips.

She sucks absently on a piece of rock-hard cheese, letting her saliva soak into it and hydrate it into gum. The taste of yak’s milk cheese doesn’t compare favorably with bread, but it is calorie dense. _Like a ration bar_ , she muses.

She’s never gotten used to the deliciousness of food. It is a small hedonism, but a vice she thinks she deserves. Even the blandest, driest hard cheese is bursting with flavor compared to a ration bar. Yes, even the grey kind.

Six months have passed and Catra has not bothered responding to her last letter. Perhaps this _was_ just a game to her, and when Adora finally loosened the grip on her cards, it scared Catra off. Perhaps Catra had tried to respond, but the letter went unnoticed.

She makes her pilgrimage to the Sea Gate alone this year – the front is quiet enough that her absence from Bright Moon won’t be missed. The Gate, like all of Etheria, weighs on her shoulders. She chuckles darkly to herself. She might be going soft – she has little time for self-pity during a mission.

The skimmer sidles up to the edge of the gate and Adora clambers onto the platform. Magic lances from her sword, fortifying Salineas’s aspis. On the platform, a stone catches her eye. Rather, her gaze catches on a neatly folded piece of paper addressed to Adora that is pinned _under_ a rock. She yearns to stop charging the gate to read Catra’s letter, but the idea waxes nostalgic. She chooses to live in the moment.

When she finishes, she kneels on the cool, sea-sprayed stone, and unfolds the letter. In her sheltered moment, she reads and vaporizes the letter with sputter of magic.

* * *

Hey Adora,

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? After your last interference, I had to explain how we got scooped to old Hordak, who threw the biggest fit I’ve seen in years. I don’t know what he sees in those desert vagrants. Anyway, I ended up working double time to “fix” the situation and he’s finally letting up a little. I ended up offering a little honey, as you put it. Thanks for the advice.

Trust I wanted to write you back sooner.

We should have done this earlier – corresponding, I mean. How many years has it been since Bright Moon? Every battle since, it feels like every victory has been paired with a defeat. Is that because I don’t know myself? Or because I don’t know my enemy?

I want to know you again.

It was so difficult, then, to think of the right words to say to you, but I think putting it in writing would have been easier. It feels easier now, at least.

You ask if I’ve ever had tea and biscuits. You must be joking, but in case you aren’t, here’s my answer – duh! Just because I’m Horde doesn’t mean I eat ration bars all day. I know we had to as kids, but officers are allowed some indulgences, after all. I admit I’m not partial to tea – it overwhelms my senses. I’ve sampled some floral infusions that are a little more pleasing, but I’m starting to think that it’s just not really my thing.

I wonder if it’s biology. Magicats have fewer taste buds than humans, did you know that? It explains why I never liked those grey ration bars – you said they were sweeter, but I never knew what you meant. That’s not to say I don’t like any food – fish and meat are my favorites. The fat is lush with odorants, so even if my sense of taste is dull compared to yours, my nose can smell all of the rich – Sorry, I digress. To answer your actual question, yes, I enjoy real food, if not for taste, just for variety. Seventeen years of nothing but ration bars can really drive a girl crazy, you know? I want to try delicacies from all across Etheria, but there’s not much time. There’s a war on, haven’t you heard?

How about you? Not food – you loved stuffing your face with ration bars, I bet that has just gotten worse since you got a taste of real food. Tell me, who is watching your back now that I’m not? That body glitter princess? Or have you ditched her, too? Kidding, I’m over it. Mostly.

In case the rest of the letter didn’t make it clear enough for you, Princess, here are the answers to your questions: First, yes, I miss you. I miss being challenged. You’ve challenged my tactics and muscles for years, but before that, you challenged my humor, my mind. In these letters, you do so again.

Second and third… I’m not sure what I want, but it isn’t a game. Promise.

Yours,

Catra

* * *

Snow falls on Catra, and she fears it will remain till summer.

The Kingdom of Snows is one of her least favorite places on Etheria. The palace is the worst – doesn’t the Princess realize it’s just made of cold water? Worst of all, children in the Kingdom of Snows have a hazing ritual, of sorts, in which they lob balls of the stuff at visitors. Fur damp, Catra is glad to step inside the palace, ducked under the hood of her coat.

Snows is not a neutral party – Catra’s very presence here is an affront to the pint-sized princess. She moves swiftly, leaping from balcony through open window to her target, the Fractal Flake. The princess has power beyond her years and her presence on any battlefield is a force-multiplier for the Rebellion. Fortunately, Catra’s engineers, via use of the Black Garnet, have prototyped their magic EMP and are eager for a field test. Catra ducks around a doorway, retreats down a hallway, and waits one minute, listening for followers. Nothing.

She fixes the bomb to the bottom of the runestone and calibrates the remote detonator. Next time the Horde faced Frosta in battle, they would put her out of commission long enough to capture her. Or worse. Catra frowns – she has no taste for murder, but this is war, after all. Catra slips away quietly as she came and begins the long trip back to the Fright Zone.

At the edge of the Woods, she finds the same EMP she left, firing mechanism crushed by an oversized fist. It is wrapped in gray-blue satin, magically embroidered with words. After reading, her claws carve the cloth into confetti.

It feels like a waste.

* * *

My clever Catra,

Thank you for your honesty. The sea breeze in spring is often bracing, but I found it biting this year. Your letter kept me warm. I admit it would keep me warmer if the Horde just laid off of Salineas for a while, though – recharging the gate every year is a hassle. You know that, I’m sure, which is why you keep at it, right?

The brisk air of Salineas has nothing on the bitter cold Kingdom of Snows, however. What thoughts kept you warm, I wonder?

This little device is quite impressive, I admit. Our tech master looked it over and he assures me it’s enough to knock She-Ra out for a few hours. I’m surprised you were planning on using it on Frosta, honestly – she’s strong, certainly, but can I say I’m a little offended? Is little ol’ me not worthy of your attention anymore? I guess I’ll have to load up my itinerary with a few more ops, then.

Your notes on comparative biology reminded me of something that may have eluded your attention. I’m not human at all – or if I am, perhaps only a distant relation. Turns out I’m the last (and only, as far as I know) First One, which is why I can wield the sword in the first place. Strange, isn’t it? When we were young, I always felt a pull toward destiny, but really, the sword didn’t have a choice, did it? It had to pick me. I guess that makes two of us.

The “body glitter” princess (I wish I could tell her you said that, it would annoy her) is named Glimmer, and yes, she and I are close. In another life, I think you two would have been fast friends. I’m not sure I have any friends. Well, that’s a bit melodramatic – I have friends, but they might just be She-Ra’s friends.

In this place (abstractly, the space contained by these letters), there’s no She-Ra, just Adora. You’re not writing as the Force Captain, either, are you?

I don’t mean to imply that I’m not She-Ra – Adora is in the proverbial driver’s seat, don’t worry. I struggle to think of her as me, though. She’s a mask, a costume I don when people need someone to rely on or look up to.

You must think I’m ridiculous, admitting all of this to Public Enemy Number Two as far as the Rebellion is concerned.

But this isn’t a game to me, either.

Adora

* * *

Instead of bread, Adora dries meat.

Elberon is semi-charmed – far from the fighting, life is redolent of peacetime. Rustic and bucolic, life in the village beckons Adora seductively. Yet she has her duties. She soldiers on. The villagers do, too – preparing jerky is a seasonal ritual, providing rations for warriors on the front lines.

Alongside the villagers, Adora places long strips of meat into a dehydrator and steps out into the square, where a young girl offers her a teacup and a slice of decadently frosted cake. With a smile, Adora takes the tray and sits under the shade of a tree.

Adora stirs the tea and sips, awash in bergamot notes and lacquered sugar. The teacup is intricate, rolling waves of flowers coiling around twelve suspended moons. A personal gift from the Queen, perhaps, or a wedding present to the local consular. She sips again, and bites the corner off the slice cake. Inappropriately cloying to pair with the tea, but delicious all the same.

Her knife falls again, but finds a point of resistance. Delicately, she pulls the cake apart and buried within is paper, six-fold creased. She chuckles fondly. She unfolds, she reads, she contemplates.

* * *

Adorable dearest,

I hate the Kingdom of Snows. Aside from the whole “literally made of water” thing, I have to wear shoes to avoid frostbite. Thanks for breaking the device, I guess – if you’d sent it back unbroken, I would have been sent back out there immediately. And fear not! That was just meant to be a quick field test, to see if the device works as intended. You’re next up on Hordak’s hit list, I’m sure.

Your last stunt did cause me trouble, though. It was hard to explain how the plan got derailed before it really even started, but it’s not like Hordak has anyone better than me. I think my hide is safe for now. Let’s not dwell on that stuff, though – I intended for this letter to be more saccharine (ha!).

You asked me if I’m writing to you as a Horde Force Captain.

I suppose not, though I had not thought about it like that before you asked. It’s difficult to say, really – who am I outside of my job? It’s hard for me to remember sometimes – I was a child, an angry teenager, then Force Captain. I think identifying myself like that makes me good at my job, right?

I’ve changed a lot about the Horde during my tenure, too. When we were growing up, we were always told that attachments beget weakness. Units were constantly being shuffled to make sure that nobody got too close to another soldier. That’s odd, right? Soldiers don’t dive onto grenades for their generals, they do it for their brothers and sisters.

Shadow Weaver didn’t understand that (or did and just didn’t care) and Hordak still doesn’t. I guess that’s why we’ve fared better since I took over military operations. Hordak would rather just waste away in his lab, anyway.

That isn’t to imply I have nothing outside of work to give my life meaning. I have friends (both Princesses, if you can believe it!), but we met through work. Will we still be friends when the job is over? Probably. I’d like to think so, anyway, but it’s hard to know definitively. After all, I’ve been wrong about it before.

I must come off petty to you, always including little snipes and jibes about how you left me behind. I’m over it, I think. For the longest time, I wasn’t (remember that business at Princess Prom? It was a dumb op, I just wanted to annoy you), but my friends keep telling me to stop taking things so personally. That’s what you meant when we were underneath the Crystal Castle, right? You leaving me wasn’t personal. Just a She-Ra thing. It’s funny that you call her a costume you can just put on or take off. That’s how I thought of her at first, too.

Anyway, this letter is getting long. It’s hard to write on such tiny paper, you know? I should finish up here soon. I guess since you offered up an embarrassing fact about yourself, I should return the favor, right? Fair’s fair.

Sometimes, when I need to think, I go to that spot on the roof. You know the one. Don’t read into it too deeply.

I guess sometimes, I still feel lonely. Don’t you?

I hope you enjoyed the cake. I was told it would be sweet, just how you like it.

Yours,

Catra

* * *

Catra counts dreaming robots.

Horde engineers designed them, etched their brains onto silicon wafers, and breathed them full of electric life, but Catra reserves the right to inspect them before they reach the field. Like a long walk in the evening or reading a heartfelt letter, it soothes her.

The latest line of robots is capable of self-repair and division, Catra is told. Not infinitely, of course – she suspects that there would be long lines of philosophers and scientists eager to examine the robots if that were possible. So long as their central processors are intact, the robots can assimilate nearby metal and knit themselves back together.

 _Made in our image_ , Catra muses, activating them one by one.

This evening, the robots will charge Bright Moon. Part of her wishes to ride along, but the attack is a planned diversion – distract She-Ra there to give Catra a chance to infiltrate the Crystal Castle. Hordak has grown irritated with the Castle – while he covets First Ones technology, he rightly sees a trove of She-Ra-exclusive tech as a legitimate liability.

Catra is assigned to give it one last sweep for salvageable tech before arranging the demolition. She hates that place and hates herself for hating it. Aside from the spiders and hostile AI, the Castle has the bitter scent of cloven friendship.

The Woods yield as her skiff skims the grass, guiding her to the Castle as if they know her purpose. Approve of it, even.

She descends the many hundreds of steps into the belly of the castle, and soaks in the sounds of silence. Small animals skitter, a breeze croons softly, but the castle is otherwise quiet. She is alone.

She plays a tenuous game – she knows not what she seeks. A data crystal? Blueprints for a superweapon? A magic sword, perhaps, to nucleate a phase change in her destiny? A holographic assistant, flickering to life as she walks by?

Well, she _does_ find the latter, at least.

“Hello. The administrator has provided this user with guest access,” the AI says. “Would you like to see the message?”

Catra stares in silence as moments pass, counted by flickers in the hologram. She acquiesces, nods, and impresses Adora’s words on her memory.

When she slips back amongst trees, knowing moons fix her in their gaze.

* * *

My kindly kitty,

If your letters are getting too long, why not use larger paper?

Am I lonely? If given the choice, would you choose between many friends, each who see but a single facet of you, or a single person who sees you in totality? Both ideas are lonely in their own way, I think. I think I should want both, but She-Ra is allowed few vices and greed is not among them.

It gladdens me to hear that our old roost still finds use. All of our best childhood memories happened up there, didn’t they? My best memories, at least.

Sometimes, I ponder my own complicity in our childhood. If I had not become so attached to you, would Shadow Weaver have ignored you? Would she have raised you like Lonnie, or even Kyle, who got out from under her more-or-less scot-free? If so, I admit I am selfish – the thought of trading my childhood with you for your safety is too painful to bear. Even if I had known the full extent of what she was doing to you, I fear I wouldn’t have been strong enough to stay away from you.

I was made with these weaknesses at my core, yet I am She-Ra, champion of Etheria, paragon of virtue, defender of… the status quo. Somehow fitting, don’t you think?

All this is to say, I do not blame you for any pettiness, intended or otherwise. I was never perfect to you, either.

Regarding your job, I see myself in you: questioning how much you have let your work consume your identity. I remember the girls we were before magical swords and captain’s badges. Has that Adora been subsumed by She-Ra, and that Catra by her Captaincy? In either case, I do not know the answer, I am afraid.

Dwelling on the past makes us sound like old women reminiscing about our service. Maybe someday, if we both survive the war, we could do that. Still, for now, let’s talk about something more cheerful. What are you planning for your next vacation? Do you get vacations? I think my last one was several years ago, to the mineral hot springs of Mystacor. For my next sabbatical (who knows, maybe it will take seven years), I think I should like to return.

Best,

Adora

* * *

Adora gazes at the inky black sky and considers that swords, not stars, hold her destiny.

She stalks the Whispering Woods in a catenary, sweeping a kilometer-wide arc around Castle Bright Moon. Magitech machines of war, excavated from deep underneath the planet’s surface, have been installed at key thoroughfares to fend off Horde advances. Some outstrip her in power, which scares her. For what purpose where they constructed? Guarding some secret so dangerous that even She-Ra can’t be privy to it?

Whatever their past, Adora’s present is charging their magical batteries.

She gazes up at one as she passes – it stands, stock-still like a gargoyle, or a carnivorous plant, or a praying mantis. As magic leaps from her sword into the machine, she nods to herself. Yes, a praying mantis is a good simile. The machine will wait hidden, coiled like a beartrap, and spring on the first unlucky Horde warband to venture by. Idly, she wonders what weaponry this particular machine is outfitted with – inside of its mouth, do gears whirr with ravenous teeth? Are its arm cannons ballistic or magitech?

She hears leaves rustling over her shoulder. She spares a glance.

She sees Catra.

Her blood runs cold.

Adora knows that Catra drives the Horde war machine as much as She-Ra drives the Rebellion. Killing her now – no, she cannot bear the thought – rather, letting the war machine kill her might be all it takes to turn the tide, to wash the Horde away in a torrent of might and muscle and steel. But there is still more she wants to say to Catra, more she wants to hear from her.

Adora’s last letter bubbles up to the surface of her mind. _If we both survive._

“Get clear!” Adora screams, and turquoise-gold eyes meet dusky blue. 

The machine roars to life and its pale green iris focuses on Catra. It rears back, shaking a thousand years of oxidized iron onto the forest floor. Its joints wheeze and pop as it opens its mouth, revealing a flurry of chainsaw teeth. It hasn’t noticed Adora – well, it has, but it doesn’t regard her as an enemy, she suspects, and lumbers toward Catra. Catra leaps away, and Adora knows she gets a single strike, one opportunity before the war machine classifies her as a turncoat.

In one swift stroke, she bisects the creature from prow to stern.

Quicksilver blood spurts out and beads in the grass, wafting toxic fumes into the air. If the creature were living to begin with, it would be finished, but its dismembered halves struggle to right themselves and fight. She sweeps her sword, tearing machined foot from ankle and taloned hand from wrist. It isn’t easy – as she finishes her grim work, a ragged claw pierces her side and injects mercuric venom. Altogether, not heavy losses, she thinks, even as she feels fire erupt in her veins and pyroclast flow from the wound.

Finally, she drives her sword into the ancient brain of the beast, and it stills. She looks up and sees Catra, eyes wide in shock.

Adora considers. A long moment passes, and she turns to hobble back to Bright Moon, dizzied by First Ones poison. Anti-magic poison, she concludes as She-Ra’s healing ebbs away from her. Fighting through the dense fog radiating from the surface of her mind, she stumbles into Glimmer’s bedchambers and collapses, groaning loud enough to wake the Princess. In a flurry, she’s being teleported to Mystacor for urgent medical care.

Weeks later, she returns home, weak but alive, and she finds a carefully folded letter tucked into her pillowcase.

* * *

Dear Adora,

Are you stupid? You could have gotten yourself killed! Do you think the Rebellion would have looked on it kindly if She-Ra died saving her sworn enemy? You only get to be a martyr if you die for your own side, idiot. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised – you’ve always been like this, giving every part of yourself away, even for someone like –

Fuck. Even after all these years, I’m terrible at being grateful, aren’t I?

Thank you, Adora, for saving me. “Sworn enemy” is probably putting it too strongly now, anyway. I wasn’t even out there on a mission – sometimes I try and find that clearing in the woods where we crashed our skiff all those years ago, just to reminisce. I… probably couldn’t have fought that thing off alone. Thank you, again.

I wanted to help you, but you were right (as usual. Honestly, that’s one of your most annoying qualities) – bringing a half-dead She-Ra to Bright Moon would probably have just hastened my execution. I don’t think Horde medics would have been much happier to see you, either. I’m sorry I couldn’t repay you, though, and even as I write this, I’m not sure you are even – no, you have to be alive. You wouldn’t let three broken ribs keep you from keeping up with your training when we were fifteen. A little poison isn’t going to keep you down, either.

It feels silly to talk about frivolous things like vacations now, but you asked, so here it is: honestly, I have no lost love for traveling. It feels too intrinsically associated with work now – there was a yearlong stretch I was being shipped to a different corner of Etheria every other day. My dream vacation, then, is a humble one – I would want to spend a day alone, with no demands made of me by anyone. Well, not alone, necessarily, but only keeping the company that I wish to keep.

When I read that back to myself, it sounds like my life is awful, doesn’t it? Like, it’s so demanding that my one and only wish is being left alone for a day? Well, it is not all that bad, but still, I have learned to value solitude. Perhaps that is just the cat in me speaking.

This is too difficult. This, writing this letter, not knowing if you are dying and these words are the last of mine you’ll ever read. Or worse, my last letter was. In case this is my last missive to you, though…

I know you’ve always had trouble saying what you want. I have, too, in my own way. This time, I’ll be clear: I like writing these letters to you, Adora. I like reading yours. I invent mnemonics to commit your letters to memory, so that I can relish your words again and again. I craft my replies around the clock – in the shower, during meals, as I space out during debriefings, I shape and reshape the words I send you.

I wouldn’t trade my memories of our childhoods for anything, either. And I’m not done with you yet. I don’t want you to be done with me. So please, please live.

Water has never been my thing (as you know), but hot springs don’t sound all that bad. Survive, and perhaps someday we can visit them.

Yours,

Catra

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Catra runs down a corridor she knows, to keep from thinking about the one she doesn’t.

Under her command, Rosewood, Thaymor, and Octopus Cove all return to the fold. She establishes supply lines for an attack on Salineas and bribes public officials in the Hinderlands. In a stroke of brilliance, she loosens a horseshoe, causing a horse to trip, breaking the leg of a minor public official, causing the Greenvale council to pledge themselves to the Horde with a margin of a single vote.

She works hard, not to win the war, but to ward off suspicion. A year ago, she would have pushed her advantage if She-Ra mysteriously went inactive. For the Horde’s sake, for Hordak’s sake – for the sake of her own hide, she acts. She wins. She keeps one ear to the ground and another to the wind, praying for slight hints that Adora is alive. None come.

In quiet nights, she scours the Woods. Scouting missions, she tells her soldiers. She searches for that clearing she first lost Adora, and she mentally rereads the letters she has etched into herself.

She waits and works, predicting how the future will play out.

Perhaps Adora died from her injuries and her letter was discarded by Castle Bright Moon’s staff, cleaning out the bedroom of a fallen soldier. _Unlikely_ , she thinks. She-Ra’s death would be too difficult to keep under wraps.

Perhaps all of this _had_ been a trap. After all, hadn’t Adora been the one to reach out, to slowly twist and tie Catra’s heart around her little finger? Now that she had incontrovertible evidence that Catra was compromised, was she going to turn it over to Hordak? More likely, but still unlikely – why would Adora wait this long?

She considers another option: Adora read her letter and drew back. Catra had admitted too much, shown herself bare, pushed herself too hard on Adora. There was no hiding behind snark, no jabs and pokes she could use to cover up the verisimilitude at the heart of her words. Catra knows her worst tendencies – she feels too strongly, her embrace is crushing.

This thought sires another, even more painful – when they were children, Adora hadn’t left because she wasn’t aware of Catra’s feelings, she left because she _was_.

She shivers, though the evening air is warm. She collapses under a great banyan tree, hugs her knees, and sobs silently. A shadow passes overhead, rustling the air like beating wings. Her ears perk up. Catra follows, running on all fours, until she emerges in a clearing.

A many-colored winged horse bows its head.

Around its neck, a scroll.

She takes it, hands shaking.

The horse takes flight, and Catra’s warm tears stain the parchment.

* * *

My dear Catra,

I apologize for not writing sooner. My strength was slow to return, so trust me – you didn’t want to be subjected to my handwriting before now, anyway. My room in Bright Moon is one of the few facing the Fright Zone, but gazing at you (imprecisely speaking) makes me feel like I have something to recover for. When I was younger, I wondered if you were out there, looking back at me.

Now, I remember that Force Captain quarters don’t have windows.

My recovery is incomplete, but I am well enough that the healers leave me alone for most of the day. My physical therapy sessions are brutal, but the physicians say that I am recovering my strength rather quickly. Perhaps a side effect of being She-Ra? Something I have to thank her for, I suppose.

While you’ve been busy (I keep up with the news), the last few weeks have been something out of a dream (muscle weakness, coordination issues, and memory problems aside). I don’t mean that just because I am being doted on hand and foot (can’t complain about that, though) – it is peaceful to watch the world turn without feeling like I’m the one pushing. I have time to write you leisurely, for once, rather than scratching out hurried words while I run from mission to mission. By the way, did you like my scheme for sneaking you letters? My steed finally came in handy.

Tomorrow morning, an attendant will bring me hot coffee (have you ever had it? It’s like tea, but made of beans, I’m told) and wheel me around the scent garden. It’s one of the few places in Bright Moon that can overwhelm my nose, so you might not like it – but after what you told me about Magicat biology, I like to think of it as my way of seeing the world through your eyes. You know, metaphorically speaking.

Don’t get too worried about the wheelchair thing – I need it less and less each day. Still, it will be a little while until I return to the field. In the meantime, I hope to soak in the details of civilian life. I wish I could soak you in them, as well, but the best I have is these letters. Perhaps this is as close as I can get, for now, to “being left alone for a day.”

As far as hot spring vacations go, I fear I’ve had my fill in the last few weeks. Where would you like to go instead? The trip to Salineas would be hard on your stomach, but the seafood is incomparable. Or perhaps the Crimson Waste? I am fond of the people there – their self-reliance reminds me of you. Or maybe we could go to Thaymore and write over our last meeting there. Ha! Impossible, but I find myself sorely tempted.

You might laugh, but I feel my face grow warm when I think of your last letter. It’s hard for me to put into words how I felt, what it did to me. As She-Ra, few tangible things belong to me. I have the sword, the clothes on my back, but everything else feels rented or borrowed from a world I do not belong in. But your letters – I draw them deep into my chest and hold them close, next to my memories of you.

Please, write again.

Yours,

Adora

P.S. Do you have any book recommendations? I have a lot of free time right now.

* * *

Even in illness, Adora doesn't lose hours in the morning.

Convalescing is hard on body, but not her mind. Before, she liked to lived deliberately, which was a virtue as a field commander. She studied the great masters, inhaled their thoughts (or their translator’s thoughts), and rebuilt her instincts to imitate theirs. She goes in prepared, always, be it a battlefield, workout routine, or even a party.

Relaxing is hard. She appreciates the opportunity, but a nagging voice keeps asking her if she’s relaxing optimally. She must be doing well enough – she can walk unassisted, for the most part, and her upper body strength has returned. Soon enough, she will be back on the field. An attendant knocks on her door, rousing her from her thoughts. She offers the girl a smile and allows herself to be wheeled to her physical therapy session.

There, she rebuilds herself.

Later, in the privacy of the scent garden, Swift Wind approaches her with a letter tied to his hoof. She offers him a sugar cube and reads, a lopsided smile on her face.

* * *

Adorbs,

You’re right, I have been busy. Hordak doesn’t know why you’re out of action, but he plans on capitalizing on it. The other princesses are putting up twice the fight in your absence, though – She-Ra must be quite the icon to them. Unsurprising – you’ve always been a seamstress, keeping people together -- be it Horde squads or Princess alliances. Even before that, you kept me from falling apart.

All that to say, work consumes me. I am ashamed to say I have little time to write this letter, but you deserve a response. Your last reply meant more than I can comfortably admit. At the time, I feared for – well, if I start explaining, I’ll fill the page up and I won’t have room for anything else. Your letter reassured me.

Your scent garden sounds fascinating. Scent is as near to my perception as sight, but there are no great works of art that stimulate only the nose. Perhaps the Magicats had great art museums with lush arrangements of lovely odors, like anise with citrus, perhaps with coconut and dark chocolate?

Knowing you, that description just makes you hungry. That aside, I’d like to know my people’s history, someday.

I’m sorry that you have to be sidelined for this long to recover. I feel like this is my fault - if I had known that you were going to need physical therapy, then I would have – well, I can’t really imagine how I would have changed what happened, but again, thank you. You didn’t have to do what you did. You deserve your rest. I'm glad that you're finally indulging in the fun parts of being a princess, even if it took you nearly dying to do it. Honestly, I'm shocked you didn't have attendants waiting on you hand and foot until now. 

I’ll try not to win the war while you’re out of commission.

I dreamt that I joined you during your recovery, making you coffee and pushing you around the castle grounds. It tasted bittersweet when I woke up (I would hate living among magic Princesses, obviously), but I feel fondly nostalgic for it now, even though it’s something that never happened. I wonder if I’d be able to speak to you again – out loud, I mean. How many years has it been since you heard my voice? Aside from our recent brush with one another, how long has it been since I heard yours? Even in my dream world, I might still have found it easier to write to you.

Salineas sounds tempting – I’ve only set foot inside of the Gate once on a scouting mission. I scarcely had time to stop for a meal, but if the fish has a She-Ra testimonial, I would like to try it. But wait – you like gray ration bars. Does She-Ra have better taste than you? Can I trust her recommendations, at least?

I tend my memories of you deep within my chest, as well. Each letter adds to my garden.

I’ll write again and again, so long as you want me to.

Yours,

Catra

P.S. You, reading for leisure? That’s hard to believe. Last I recall, your bookshelf was full of textbooks! Well, if really are asking, read _Something Immortal._ It’s absolute drivel, but charming drivel.

* * *

Catra watches the moons turn from the Northern Reach.

Her crawler hunts, firing great armor-piercing shells the size of pumpkins at monstrous machines who wriggle up and out of the permafrost to greet the first snowfall of the season. Strike teams surround an ancient specimen – its reinforced steel scales are already sloughing off. They bring it down, and with it, a trove of First Ones servos and motors.

The taste of victory has gone bland.

As her transport shuffles toward the Fright Zone, Catra savors the past. Thoughts of Adora radiate from her bones, warming her until the humid, sticky air of the Fright Zone swallows her whole. After checking the cargo into a warehouse and debriefing Hordak, Catra slips away into the Woods.

Her feet know the way to the clearing now. She leaps from tree to tree, leaving deep gouges in the branches. She finds her quarry.

Vines, once twisted around a sword of prophecy, cradle a scroll tube.

Catra slumps in the clearing, alone, and reads.

* * *

Dear Catra,

The air is turning cold again. I’ve been taking my morning coffee from my balcony again, watching you from over the horizon. You’ve been busy, though – for all I know, when I’m gazing at the Fright Zone, you are stalking the Crimson Waste, or spelunking in a buried ruin, or somewhere else altogether.

I’ve been following your exploits, as much as one can from the proverbial sickbed. I like to think about how I would have thwarted you, where and when I could have left you a secret letter. I want to get back into the field and match wits and muscle with you again. I miss our game, though it feels like our objectives have changed, wouldn’t you say? 

I’ve picked up playing the lute, can you believe that? The healers say it will help my fingers regain dexterity, but honestly, I think I might stick with it. After the war, I mean. I’m not very good yet, but I would like to play you something, someday, somewhere. There’s a magic in music – there are songs I’ve heard that hum in my soul, like they were written about me, or by me.

Music makes it possible to say things that are too difficult to say out loud. Writing letters, too. I understand what you mean now – it is easier.

You poke fun at me, but your description _did_ make me hungry! The cooking staff here was able to whip up a wonderful batch of sugar cookies glazed with orange and anise. They coated some of them with chocolate – I wish I could have shared them with you, but they were probably a bit sweet for you. You could have smelled them, I suppose. Isn't delicious food like an exhibit of scents and flavors, in a way? 

Also, that book was terrible! Why would anyone fall in love with a predator that thirsts for their blood? I admit that I found the idea intriguing, but it didn’t end up drawing me in. I should have just stuck with my textbooks. Here’s a fun fact I read recently – did you know that First Ones celebrated children’s birthdays by giving them gifts? I can’t imagine Shadow Weaver giving us anything. Maybe an extra helping of ration bars?

It’s strange to think of the First Ones as my people. When I think about it too hard, though, it’s difficult to think of the Etherians as my people, too. I love Etheria, but what makes you part of a culture? Growing up amongst its people? Sharing traditions? If so, perhaps we share a culture of two.

Salineas it is! Would you want to go in summer or in winter? Summer is best for crab, I think, but fried scup with potatoes in the winter is delicious, too. And sugar aside, I think I know my way around food! At least, I’ve eaten a lot of it. Whenever I visit another kingdom as She-Ra, it seems like all they do is feed me local delicacies. Have I earned a reputation? Anyway, you’ll like Salinean cuisine, I swear it on my sword.

You wrote of a dream where you nurse me back to health. I ache with longing at the thought (spending peaceful time with you, not being wheelchair-bound again. As an aside, I’m completely on my feet again!).

When we were young, we were taught to calcify our softness. We kept each other in orbit, but any tenderness had to be covered with fierceness, or callousness at least. We needed each other, but we were built with sharp edges. If we clung to each other too tightly, we would cut.

In my dream, we can unmake the weapons we were hammered into by war, and treat each other with gentle kindness.

Yours,

Adora

* * *

Adora sharpens her body.

She lunges and cuts, her core burning. Her muscles, atrophied by sickness and inactivity, scream out, but she pushes on. Soon, the weight of the Rebellion will be back on her shoulders, their dreams pushed by her legs. For them, she will whet herself knife-sharp.

Her hours regiment once again and she is reminded that she is a soldier, a well-sharpened blade to lance the Horde from Etheria. The paradox at the core of her grows painfully and she wonders if it will tear her apart. Perhaps it will swell to bursting, and she will burst with it.

In the evening, she sits cross-legged near the lake, bathed in the fading light of day. Her fingers tremor, and she wonders if it’s a leftover of strenuous exercise, or a lingering effect of the poison, or perhaps a side effect of the treatment. Over the tree line, seven-colored wings glide into view and alight at the edge of the woods.

She stands, mounts her horse, and hugs his neck tightly as he takes off. He leads her to a joy that will settle inside of her, blinding and white-hot. She wonders what of her, if anything, will remain if she swallows it whole and lets it burn her from the inside out. She accepts it, nonetheless.

* * *

My brave hero,

You will be back in the field soon, won’t you? I admit I fear seeing you again, under old contexts. These letters – your letters, they carry an infection of their own. I see your face in crowds, scent you on the wind. You are everywhere – you surround me. I drive myself to exhaustion so I can be with you in my dreams. While I sleep, I sing to you, you serenade me, we dance. I paint your shoulders with henna and you, my hands. We stand side by side rather than apart. I long.

It’s a familiar feeling, but you are right – when we were young, we were forged with iron in our teeth and under our skin. My mask, your ambition – I couldn’t speak my mind at the time. I think that you couldn’t, either. Your letters have peeled away my armor, removed my mask, blunted my claws.

I am unguarded, here.

I think about wasted time.

A part of me does miss you out here, though. Victory comes easily to me without you pushing back. I enjoyed when we challenged each other on the battlefield, sharpened claw to sword, my wits to your strength. But I, too, want to be tender. I want to brew your coffee, to loosen your ridiculous ponytail. I want to hold you, not with my claws in your back, but in an embrace. I fear I admit too much, but I scarcely feel I have a choice – these words pour from the heart of me, unbidden.

Do we have an out? The war can’t go on forever – someday, in Bright Moon or the Fright Zone or somewhere else entirely, we will have to fight again. I’ve realized, recently, what our promise means. You know the one – you and me together, at the end of the world. What does it mean to you?

Salineas in the summertime sounds lovely. Perhaps we could settle there, raise a cat, and you could play me the lute. Or I could sing with you, and we could travel as bards. We could sample every dish in Etheria and lay down our responsibilities, except to one another. These dreams are always tinged with bittersweetness. I dream of worlds painted with every shade of you, where we never came to know one other as enemies. Worlds where we tend to each other’s wounds instead of causing them. Worlds in which I am brave.

I wake to gray reality, and I am still a coward.

I have to get back to work. Hordak doesn’t suspect anything, yet, but he has ears in every wall and eyes up on every rafter. I cannot slip, for my sake. For your sake.

Yours, always,

Catra

* * *

Catra hides in plain sight.

She has been pulled back from operating in the field and assigned by Hordak himself to oversee engineering. They are still fiddling around with anti-magic tech – it hardly seems like a task that needs her oversight. Catra wonders. _Is he suspicious? Have I given myself away?_

She scours the Fright Zone in paranoia, checking and re-checking for any slightest hint, any scrap of evidence that she has been compromised, but there’s nothing. She’s been thorough – of course she has. If Hordak knows, he betrays nothing. Every other morning, he asks Catra for a status report on the anti-magic project, but otherwise he leaves Catra to ruminate in her thoughts. 

She finds another letter in the clearing, but she fears she was followed. She pockets it and runs, up the banks of a river and deep, deeper into the Woods. She finds a hollow beneath a great, old tree split by lightning. She sits. She waits.

She waits.

Hours pass, night falls, and nobody approaches her. She allows herself a soft exhale of relief as a breeze brushes the grass. Abscised leaves fall from nearby trees, crowning her in gold.

The letter calls to her – she _needs_.

She feels weak. She spent years building walls around her heart and buried it under the rubble of their demolished friendship. But here she is – desperate to imagine Adora’s voice, her smile, her eyes. Memories and dreams aren't enough.

She unfurls the parchment, reads wetly, and among dead and dying leaves, she sleeps.

* * *

My sweet villainess,

Tomorrow is my first field op since the “accident”, as they are calling it (I told them that the First Ones AI was corrupted and attacked me as soon as I powered it on). Go easy on me – I’m a little out of practice. Operation is putting it generously, though. I’m just visiting Plumeria for their mid-autumn festival. The Queen suspects that I’m still infirm, I think, but I can summon She-Ra again, so I’m going to “strengthen ties,” as she puts it. Not to be too cynical, but I think I am just a mascot for the Rebellion.

Despite everything, my stomach drops at the thought of telling you Rebellion military movements, even those as insignificant as these. I know, I know – even you are not capable of a hustle this long and this involved, but that’s not – what I mean to say is, I’m all in. For me, there’s no coming back from this. I dug myself this hole, all I can hope is that you won’t bury me in it.

Speaking of outs… someone dear to me once told me to think about what I want after the war. A previous She-Ra, actually. Did you know that I can talk to them? Or their memories, at least. I don’t think they’re alive, really – their memories sleep within until I call upon them. Sometimes I think about what it will be like when I’m one of them, advising the next She-Ra, and –

Let’s leave that for some other time, though.

I was raised to never be sated. Shadow Weaver whet my appetite to protect, filled me with ambition, and whispered in my ear that I was meant for more. Remember our perch? We would dream about ruling Etheria together. My words, but I realize now that was Shadow Weaver, speaking through me. If you remember, she even used you to ensure I stayed on the path she planned for me, which I will never, ever forgive her for.

Still, when I found the sword, it felt like the world agreed – I really was meant for more. Shadow Weaver may have cultivated it, but that hunger was mine alone, seeded inside of me by genetics or chance or circumstance of birth.

My whole life, that hunger pushed me ever forward and ever higher. Mara (the last She-Ra) asked me what my endgame is, after the war is over. Honestly, I didn’t have an answer – she died in battle and I thought that would be my story, too. To fly higher and higher until I’m too close to the sun, and I burn out at my most brilliant, most blinding.

I realize now, that isn’t what I want.

Your letter filled me to bursting. I found only one point of contention – you are brave, Catra. You are brave enough to say the things that I cannot – you pluck unspoken thoughts from my mind and commit them to ink, will them real. I wanted to tell you that you live in my dreams, but you wrote to me first. I wanted to tell you tell you that I missed the sound of your voice, but I could not; you did. I wanted to tell you that I see you everywhere, that I hear your laughter around every corner.

But I couldn’t, and you did.

I am the coward. There’s so much more I want to say – that I need to say, that burgeons within. But I am too weak, or too foolish, or too cowardly, and I cannot. I am on the cusp of a great drop, and I fear I will not survive the fall. But –

I trust you. Push me.

Please.

Love,

Adora

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a bonus update because I have been writing like crazy on vacation.

Patience remedies Adora’s sickness.

She strides into Plumeria and is given a hero’s welcome. The Princess greets her with tears in her eyes and magicks a crown of orchids onto her head. Adora kisses babies, allows children to braid her hair, and prepares salads alongside the kingdom’s youths, on the cusp of adulthood. In honor of a She-Ra of old, she symbolically blesses the feast and lights a great bonfire.

There are no enemies, but she fights a battle of expectations all the same. Her smile, frozen on her face, feels plastic and insincere – not just because she is out of practice, but because she’s tasted happiness, and it whet her appetite beyond compare. The flavor is familiar, yet deeper and more complex than she remembers.

Thinking about Catra makes smiling easier. She wonders what Plumeria would look like, reflected in Catra’s eyes. She chuckles to herself, realizing that the cuisine would not agree with Catra’s stomach.

Adora peels papayas, drinks coconut milk, and bakes bananas. She enchants children with tales of the war, tales of She-Ra past, and is enchanted herself by the dancing words of poets and storytellers. At dusk, she walks alone across the grasslands and takes in sights of sleeping panthers and scurrying badgers. She sees the world fresh – through the eyes of a child marveling at how the trees, the wind, the moons burst with color.

In the morning, she returns to Bright Moon, head tattooed with braids and sword adorned in trinkets, shining like glowing embers. Her chest is heavy with strings of beads and eagle feathers are tucked behind her ears. She jubilates, thinking, _Catra would think I look ridiculous._

* * *

Dear Adora,

I hope your mission saw you well, even if it was just a princess party. It wouldn’t want you to claim I beat you just because you were working off an old injury.

Sorry. Your last letter – it embossed your words on my heart, it breathed meaning into me, yet I can’t help but dance around the thrust of it. Years later and I am still at a loss for words, like I am seventeen again.

I teach a tactics class for senior cadets, from time to time. The focus is teaching field command – the best ways to move infantry, where a tank division might do the most damage, escaping crisis situations with minimal losses, things like that. I also teach a unit about information gathering. Do you remember what we were taught? “Never cast the die until you know what face it will land on.”

I didn’t understand it when we were cadets, but the lesson wasn’t to paralyze yourself with endless analysis, it was to make a decisive move after reviewing all the information at hand. Yet, here I am. I know what I know, I know everything I can know, but I tremble. I hesitate to dive.

I love you, Adora.

I loved you. We were children, and I fell helplessly in love with you. I tried to convince myself, in the wake of your defection, that my feelings were due to coincidence, or proximity, or both. I love you again. Still, perhaps. My love stretches forward and backward in time, rewriting past and future, and I become unsure if I have lived a single moment I didn’t love you.

I want to be more than a dream for you. More than a memory. I want to leap off the page.

I want to be tangible, palpable. I want to live in your caresses. I want to bask in your solicitude. I want to build a home in your arms, and for you to be at home in mine. I want you to challenge me, to stretch me, to cross wide abysses for me. Together, when our faces are lined with years of laughter and affection, I want to be at the end of the world. I want to brew coffee, bake bread, and compose music with you. I want to push you, be pushed, to carry and be carried.

You chose a simple, single word to close your letter, but it is weighty. It confuses me. It feels like it should be bigger, yet I struggle to find other words that can contain this. I can only approach it obliquely, via metaphor or reference.

I want to be left alone, together with you. I want to orbit, revolve, and precess around you.

I love you. I don’t know what is on the other side of this threshold, but with you, I want to find out.

Love,

Catra

* * *

Hordak summons Catra to his sanctum.

Dim light, sickly green fills the room. The smell of bleach and amniotic fluid burns Catra’s nostrils.

Failed experiments marinate in backlit vats. Forgotten machinery hangs, suspended from great hooks and pincers descending from the ceiling. Catra never liked this place – it had the vibe of someone trying too hard to be a supervillain.

Yet, Hordak is no saint. Catra remembers plenty of tests of loyalty, before-dawn transports to Beast Island, and good, old-fashioned execution of prisoners of war when the dungeons got too full. No, Hordak is amoral at best and his values are alien – Catra has only managed to stay alive this long because she has made herself useful. There was no fondness between them, no connection between adoptive father and daughter, mentor and mentee, or even coworkers.

Catra wonders where Hordak came from. She had pieced together several scraps of half-rumors and hard-earned information – he had come through a portal from another dimension of some sort, and he was a defective clone of his “brother.” She shivers at the idea of a more effective Hordak. Perhaps, she muses, his defect is in the kindness department. She sighs. In the grand scheme of things, her history isn’t that much better.

All told, they work well together.

Catra doesn’t know why she’s been summoned today, but she salutes.

“Force Captain,” Hordak begins impassively. Catra waits. Hordak descends from his throne. His tuft of hair is mussed, and he looks like he’s barely slept. Upon reflection, Catra realizes she doesn’t know if Hordak even needs to sleep. Presumably, yes, but she’s long since stopped making assumptions about him. He flexes his fingers and she wonders if the jig is up. She imagines Hordak’s retribution and thinks: _fine._

“She-Ra has returned to the field,” Hordak says. “And she threatens to undo all of our careful progress during her absence. She remains an ever-present thorn in our sides.” He raises his hand, and a screen flickers to life. Catra looks at image of She-Ra – no, Adora shines through – and struggles to look at her the way she used to. Back then, did she narrow her eyes? Furrow her brow?

“Where is this picture from?” Catra asks, slowly, willing disinterest into her voice. She wonders if Hordak is merely playing with her. Perhaps her deception is known, and Hordak is just waiting for her to confess.

She won’t.

Hordak waves a hand dismissively. “An undercover agent took it in Plumeria. It matters not. However, she hasn’t fought us in battle – she must still be weakened. We need to deal with this problem before it grows out of our control.”

Catra swallows. “I’ll make her my next target.” An out. An excuse to see Adora again without Hordak growing suspicious.

Hordak snaps his fingers, and the screen changes to a gaze plot of the area surrounding the Fright Zone. Blue lines ensconce the Fright Zone border, but tangle in a thick web in a clearing in the Whispering Woods. Catra takes it in and tries to fight down the lump in her throat. “What is this?” she asks, feigning ignorance.

“These are She-Ra’s movements for the last six months,” Hordak replies. “The engineering corps have developed a method to triangulate her primal magic within a short range of the Fright Zone. It is strange, isn’t it, that she spends so much time at the border?”

Catra wills her fur down and wraps her tail around her own ankle to keep it from thrashing. “Yes, that is strange,” she offers. How much did he know? Had he intercepted a letter?

“The reason matters not. We will use this tendency of hers to spring a trap that will solve the She-Ra problem. Permanently.”

“Where do I come into this?” Catra asks. Her voice doesn’t sound nearly as hungry to her ears as it should, she thinks.

“You have served me loyally, Force Captain. She-Ra is your old rival, is she not? I thought that the honor of springing this trap should be yours alone.” Hordak offers her a grim smile. She wonders if Hordak thinks it is beatific.

Catra nods. “Thanks,” she says, trying to sound vindictive. “What’s the plan?”

“The colonizers of this planet, the so-called “First Ones,” had developed methods for controlling the She-Ra. Your own expeditions have helped the Horde make significant progress on this front. The engineers will help you craft the trap, and you will set it. When it springs, it will end her and shatter that damnable sword. She-Ra will be over, for good.” Hordak offers Catra a whitepaper, which she clutches tightly. She hopes the shaking in her grip isn’t noticeable. “This work is of the utmost importance, Force Captain. I expect your undivided attention.”

Catra salutes again. “You got it, Hordak.”

Catra walks to her quarters and skims the instructions, a sickness growing around her heart. This – this is just a roadblock. It can be navigated.

In the blue hour after dusk, she seeks the clearing. Parchment awaits her, trimmed in gold and inked in pools of rich black. She reads as daylilies wither around her.

* * *

My Catra, my one and only,

You have rewritten me into a being that wants, Catra. I wish I were a clever woman, so I could compare you to the sunset over Plumeria. I would liken us to night and day and write of my yearning for an eclipse. I would compare the smell of your hair to the caress of the drying breeze. I would promise you festivals to celebrate our love, or tell you that carrying you in my heart balances me. But I am not, and the only words that avail themselves to me are simple and unvarnished.

It should not have taken me so long to admit it, but in this, I am chasing you.

Catra, I love you. To make up for my inelegance, I will shower you in letters telling you so. I will bury you, I will drown you, I will – I will worry that I don’t know how to do this. I have never been as eloquent as you.

I have loved brothers and sisters and ideals and callings, but this. This. It is new, yet familiar. Its enormity shocks me, yet at the same time it feels ancient and comfortable.

The fact of you envelops me. I want to raise pets (a family, perhaps?) with you. We can trim hedges, have a garden, and make each other tea. I want to walk hand-in-hand beneath skies of every color. I want to sing you songs of young love.

I want to do everything and nothing, but I want to do it together.

Love,

Adora

* * *

The Queen requests Adora’s presence.

Adora walks with a spring in her step, practically humming to herself as she enters the Queen’s throne room. Angella sits in her golden throne askew, her chin resting on her hand. Despite being very literally back on the job, Adora feels unburdened. It is a new feeling. Perhaps she did deserve an easy first assignment back, she thinks. Hasn’t she worked harder, pushed herself farther than anyone else for the Rebellion?

“Adora,” the Queen says warmly. “It’s good to see you up and about again.”

“Your majesty, sir,” Adora salutes, then bows. She has figured out how to make the combination less awkward over the years, she thinks.

“Please, Adora. At ease.” Angella beckons a pair of attendants, who bring them each a glass of champagne. “To your recovery,” she says, raising her glass to Adora.

“To recovery,” Adora nods, taking a small sip. It’s sweet and rich, but dry. Like Catra’s laugh, she thinks. Her face grows warm. She takes another sip, longer this time, to hide her wide smile.

Angella takes a long drink from her champagne, then regards Adora carefully, wings beating slowly. She twirls the stem of her flute between forefinger and thumb.

“Is something the matter, your Highness?” Adora asks.

The Queen leans forward in her throne. “I think you should put off further fieldwork until you’re completely recovered. We cannot afford to lose you, not when we’re already on our back foot.”

Adora tilts her head and composes a reply. “Your Highness, “ she swallows. “I know how much ground the Horde gained while I was out. I can’t afford to lay around. And besides – “ _Besides, how else will she see Catra again?_ “Besides, I’m not a mascot. I can fight. I’m fine.”

Angella shakes her head in mild reproof. “You are always so eager to rush into danger,” she says, but her voice is affectionate. “Very well, even I am not arrogant enough to think I can order She-Ra round. But be careful. The Horde has been quiet lately. I never know what they’re planning,” she adds sternly.

“Always,” Adora says, bowing deeply. She begins to leave, but pauses. “A question, your majesty.”

“Yes?”

“When the war is over,” Adora says. _When we win,_ she tries to imply, but her heart is scarcely in it. “What happens to the Horde? Aside from Hordak, they’re all Etherians, too. What happens to them?”

Angella looks at Adora placidly. “We will cross that bridge once we get there,” she says after a moment of consideration. “For now, let’s focus on the tasks in front of us.” Her voice has a tone of finality, and Adora knows that the audience is over.

She bows again and retires to her chambers. She steps out onto the balcony and breathes the cooling air deep, her nerves untangling. Staying composed is difficult when her very soul is singing with joy, but she’ll have to get used to it, she thinks. After the war, she will make a plan with Catra and they’ll escape together.

They just have to survive till then, one day at a time.

An out-of-place scratch mark on the balustrade catches her attention, and her eyebrows knit. Her eyes follow a trail, and then, land on a crumpled note on her oft-ignored vanity. She smooths the paper and makes out Catra’s angular handwriting.

“Oh, Catra,” she murmurs, reading.

* * *

Dear Adora,

We can’t do this anymore.

Hordak, he knows. Or he doesn’t, or he does and pretends not to, but he has an inkling _._

He knows about our spot in the woods. I don’t think he’s intercepted anything, but he knows enough to know that you are vulnerable there.

Why have you been going there, anyway? I thought – I assumed that your horse was ferrying our messages. You idiot. You’ve come too close, and now they know, and now they’re going to try and kill you.

Worse, even – they’re going make me try to kill you.

Hordak is clever. I don’t know what he plans on doing, but it’s going to be subtle. This will be no machine-beast, no elemental, it won’t even be me. You’re not going to be able to face this with your sword, Adora, so don’t even try. The Horde has First Ones tech – poison, and anti-magic tech, and goddess knows what else. They are ready for you. Don’t fall for it.

Everything you promised me in your last letter, I desperately want it. I want to build beautiful futures with you. I want to reify all of your dreams.

But in this world, we – we can’t. Not yet.

I’m going to go along with the plan. I will lay their trap in our clearing. Do not go there again. Please. They’ll have to accept that you lost interest, for whatever reason. The trap won’t snare you and they’ll move on, and we’ll go back to fighting as we always have. We will glimpse one another from across the battlefield, but no more than that.

We can’t keep taking risks like this. Know that I love you, and I’ll do so from afar. No more letters. Not until after the war, please. I love you, Adora, so please, for me. For us. Stay away.

I wish I had known myself better when we were children. If I had just gone with you, maybe we could have – no, it is too painful to think about. I have your love now, and that has to be enough. I will treasure each letter we sent, and my memories of you, and your love until this worthless war is over.

I love you. I love you.

Catra

* * *

Catra crafts a weapon of sorrow.

Research and development has tread more ground than she expected. Every piece of scavenged First Ones lore, data crystal, and forgotten technology is improved upon and comes together in a symphony fit to unmake a goddess. Its subtlety makes her want to scream. Its beauty makes her want to retch. It terrifies her.

The head engineer gives her the rough outline.

“We hypothesized long ago that the First Ones created She-Ra by harnessing the planet’s natural magic. Her sword is a powerful piece of First Ones technology, but we can use that against her,” the woman explains. Too enthusiastically for this macabre work, Catra thinks.

“How?”

“Every piece of First Ones tech I’ve taken apart comes with a hardcoded one-time passcode that enables root access. Brute forcing the passcode is difficult, but with our innovations – “

“Okay, okay, skip the nerd talk,” Catra interrupts. “Just tell me what I need to do.”

“Right,” the woman says, chastised somewhat. She produces a gray slate from a drawer. “This device will attempt to break the security of her sword, but it needs time. An hour, more or less, in close proximity to the sword to crack it. That’s where you come in – you buy us that hour.”

“That’s a long time,” Catra demurs.

“It would’ve been even longer if the scrap team hadn’t found that ancient First Ones war machine. Its firmware is a little older, so we were able to compromise it and learn how to spoof the client half of the root access handshake, but even with that – “

“Right, I get it. You’re a genius, congratulations.” Catra cuts her off, stomach starting to turn. They had thought of everything. Of course they had a plan. “Still, how am I going to get her to stick around this thing for an hour?”

“That’s where this comes in,” the engineer says, producing a small scintillation flask from her lab coat. Inside, a colorless liquid swirls. “That war machine also taught us how to make this poison – organic quicksilver. Just as incapacitating as the underivatized stuff, but it is incredibly potent. It passes through skin and requires a much smaller dose. If she so much as gets a good whiff of this, she’ll pass out in minutes. If we’re lucky, it may even kill her.”

The engineer looks up with a manic gleam in her eyes. “From this, we’re going to make ink. You’re going to write a letter – something intriguing enough that she actually stops and reads it. Uh, make sure you wear both kinds of gloves when you’re handling this. It passes through latex in seconds.”

Catra’s cool expression stays frozen on her face, but she reels within. The plan is exceedingly clever. Truly, she herself couldn’t have forged a sharper knife to slip between Adora’s ribs. Catra sees her own hand in every element of it, too – despite everything, she was always crafting the weapon aimed at Adora’s heart.

“Doesn’t this all seem a little… underhanded to you?” Catra asks, scratching her neck. “I always faced her head-on.”

“Fat lot of good that’s done us,” the woman grumbles quietly, though it is loud enough for Catra to hear. “She-Ra is just another tool for magic-users to dominate the rest of us. And she’s an instrument of the colonizers, no less. This trap is just the best solution to the problem.”

Bile rises in Catra’s throat, but she nods. Adora is not a _problem_ , she wants to scream, but she shoves her fury down. There’s no point to laying out her cards now. This is it, then – she will compose one final letter. One she hopes will never be read. The thought that it could be sickens her.

Mercifully, neither Hordak nor the engineering team care about the actual contents of her letter. After they have left, she hunches over the lip of a fume hood and writes.

Catra’s warned Adora – she will listen. She will be happy to put their – whatever they have – on hold, at least until the end of the war. Adora may be an idiot, but she’s not stupid. They can go back to their previous relationship for the time being. For so many years, they didn’t speak. They were together once, then separate. They can do it again.

Should that be so difficult?

Painful, yes, but Catra will bear any pain to save Adora’s life. Just knowing Adora is alive, somewhere, will be enough for her. It has to be.

Finished, she straightens and adjusts her respirator. The tablet is beautiful. Its slate gray surface belies the subversive technology within. Catra’s handwriting, cast in silvery-blue ink, shines fetchingly in the light. It is death, yes, but it is art worthy of her love.

She seals the tablet in a triply-laminated sleeve and treks to the clearing.

Encircled in vines, she finds a note.

Her hands shake as she exchanges it for the tablet.

Adora won’t read this.

She won’t.

They will go on, loving each other silently, secretly until they can be together.

Back in her quarters, she reads the note. She exhales in relief, but her sleep is fitful.

* * *

Catra,

Yeah. Sure.

Adora

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, let me know what you think! Your comments always mean a lot to me. The style of this work was a little bit out of my comfort zone, but it was fun. For those who have been following along since the start (and those picked up in between), I hope you enjoy the end.

A great tree falls and Adora shudders, watching from the tall grass.

This morning, Adora woke flooded with grim resolve. A month has passed since she sent Catra the note and Catra has not responded. Adora has been waiting for a retraction, but none comes. The Horde has pulled back from major engagements – waiting, surely, for her to take the bait. The tension has become palpable – a move must be made.

Out of macabre curiosity, she has visited the clearing and studied the weapon from afar. It is beautiful and terrifying – her name, written in Catra’s penmanship is jagged and familiar, but the substance, the substrate fill her with dread. The tablet casts a heavy air of ruin over the clearing, as if it is a cursed artifact whispering a cataleptic promise.

If Adora were more clever, perhaps she could have devised a plan, figured out the play to slice this knot. But even Catra could not think of an out, however, so perhaps they truly have been cornered. Battle tactics used to thrill her – executing a battle plan felt something like threading a needle attached to a moving target.

Now, however, she is tense. Frayed. Fervent.

She sees the ending.

She bids Swift Wind farewell at the edge of the woods. She tells him to wake Glimmer if she hasn’t returned by morning. She suspects that by then, it won’t matter. The Horde prides itself on efficiency.

Though she knows the path, the Woods guide her gently to the clearing, as if they know what lies in her heart. Wind whips through branches, coils around tree trunks, and rushes back again. It sounds as if the Woods themselves are wailing. In mourning, perhaps, Adora thinks.

The tablet catches her eye almost instantly – it gleams with reflected moonlight. _Like the sword_ , she thinks. In a way, it is, but it spells the end of a story, not the beginning.

It’s unsubtle, really – before everything that has happened, Adora would have never sprung such an obvious trap. It may as well be glowing bright red and covered in hazard lights, announcing its danger. She doesn’t know the specifics, but she can guess well enough – if she takes it, she will die.

But if she doesn’t, Hordak will suspect Catra tipped her off, and Catra will die in her stead. Her Catra - her sweet, clever Catra, blinded by love, refuses to see this obvious test of loyalty for what it is.

Adora grew up thinking she would die for a cause. She sighs. She could do much worse than dying for love.

She approaches the letter, and wonders for a moment if this really was a long con. All of that was just to set her up for this.

She chooses to believe it wasn’t. 

Gingerly, she pulls the tablet from the vines, and it reacts instantly to her touch. Rather, her bracer reacts instantly and grows white hot. _Clever,_ she thinks, though she doesn’t know what exactly is happening, and she calls back her sword. She drives it into the soft earth and sits, cross-legged.

She flicks the tablet open and her breath catches at Catra’s silvery-blue script. The ink smells almost sweet, but sickly, like rotting grapes or overripe bananas. She breathes deeply. Her extremities tingle and her muscles twitch involuntarily. The poison is familiar, but sharper – it lacks subtlety, it has no pretense. It cuts deep and carves away at her perception, filling her body with scorching numbness. Her magic ebbs away, and she’s not sure if it is due to the poison or whatever is happening to her sword.

She laughs shakily as she reads, perhaps at circumstance. Perhaps at her own stupidity.

The letter is heartfelt. It breaks her. It oozes love even as it sinks in its fangs.

When she finishes, she sobs until her fingers tremble. She pulls a sheet of paper from her jacket and, with what little time she has remaining, she writes a letter.

* * *

Stop, you idiot.

They told me it should smell sweet, but if you've smelled it, it’s already too late. It’s quicksilver but different, and by now it is already inside of you. Put this down and get out of here. I don’t care how. Your horse can carry you back, just stop reading this.

Adora, please. Leave.

You’ve always been stubborn, but Adora, please. Just this once, give up on something. Give up on me. There’s not going to be any miracle this time. This poison will char your nerve endings, the tablet will cut off your magic, and you will die. This weapon is precision-made for She-Ra and it will end her. It will end you.

You’ve left, right? You’re flying back on your horse now, your healers will treat you with whatever medicine and magic they did last time. I’m writing these words, and though I imagine you reading them, you’re not.

Right?

Stop. Stop. I’m not worth this, Adora. I’m worthless, I am weak. I wanted a new beginning with you, but if you are still here, I let the Horde turn me into your unmaking. I watched them test the poison. It isn’t pretty, this sickness. I must imagine it, but I cannot understand what would make you read this far for someone like me. It is difficult to imagine what, but I must have given you something in return, right? A moment of peace, a place to put down your burdens?

Why are you still reading this?

Please, please go. Get help. I don’t know if anything can save you at this point, but I have to believe. I love you.

Forever and always, I love you.

Catra

You are still reading, aren’t you?

You are such an idiot. I hoped that for just once in your life, you could be selfish, but you’re still here. I want to think that I would do the same for you, but I had the chance, I suppose, and I let them use me. There is no fairness in this – you are dying, so brave and beautiful, while I live.

I don’t deserve to say it, but I love you. I love you in every one of my memories. Even in my prickly solitude as a child, you watched me and in return, I held a candle for you. Even when I hated you, I loved you. I scarcely know myself outside of knowing you, I can’t imagine the shape of myself without all the ways you’ve touched my life. I love you. I love you.

The worst, most selfish part of it all is that as I write this, I wonder what it might feel like to hold you. To kiss you. To wake in your arms in a place of our own. And I don’t know, I won’t ever, because you’re going to –

Fuck.

I retch at the thought of you reading these words. Even when I had convinced myself we were enemies, this isn’t how I thought it would end. Perhaps your sword in my chest, or my claws in your back, but never this.

I have always been fire and I have burned you for the last time. I am broken glass and I have been carved into a knife and slipped between your ribs. And through all of it, despite it all, I love you. You gave me so much good in life and I was so stupid and fearful that even in loving you, I ruined you.

For me, there will never be any more than this.

My brave warrior, my sweet martyr – now, then, betwixt and between, I love you.

Catra

* * *

Catra wakes to a living nightmare.

Her communicator lights up with an alert assigned a ringtone she never wanted to hear.

She's dreamt it before. She's dreamt it dozens of times – waking, sweaty and terrified to a report that Adora’s body has been recovered from the Woods. Wide awake, she flicks through the lock screen. A glitch, perhaps, or a forgotten alarm. Adora can’t have actually done it. She warned Adora what would happen.

Her stomach sinks as she reads the screen. The trap has been sprung. She hopes that by some miracle, Adora isn’t caught in its teeth.

Catra grabs the keys to her skiff and leaves before her squad gets out of bed. Hordak wrote the protocol himself – she and four other elite soldiers would go to the clearing. To finish the job, if need be.

Fuck the protocol.

The Woods, ineffable in nature, clear her a path. “Why now? Why this time, when it barely even matters?” she murmurs, face streaked with tears. The Woods answer by whispering to her what they whisper to everyone.

She skids to a stop and leaps off the skiff. On all fours, she dashes through the thicket surrounding the clearing, calling Adora’s name. There is no reply – of course there isn’t. And then when she breaks into the clearing, she sees her, lying in the green grass.

Her sword is driven into the ground next to her, and while Catra doesn’t fully understand First Ones tech, she can tell that the tablet’s work is done. The sword used to thrum with life and magic, but whatever power was there has retreated into the stone set in the quillon. It is a dead thing now, covered in hairline fractures. And Adora –

Catra collapses to her knees. Adora's hands are folded over her chest. Clasped in her hands is an envelope addressed to Catra in Adora’s smooth, looping script. Catra bows her head over Adora’s chest and screams. The leaves in the trees encircling them rustle disinterestedly.

But then – with an ear over Adora’s parted lips, she feels a weak puff of air.

The world has gone gray, but some color might remain.

The rest of her team is coming to collect the body. Even if Adora isn’t dead yet, her team is going to finish the job. Catra’s future forks in front of her.

She makes the choice she should have made the first time.

Catra’s fingers close around Adora’s wrist, feeling for a pulse, but if it is there, her own heart is thundering too forcefully for her to detect it. “Adora, come on, we have to get you out of here,” she whispers, drawing the dying woman into her arms. Adora feels small, like this. Her shoulders seem too slender to carry the weight they do.

Catra staggers to her skiff and fumbles with the keys. She glances at the fuel gauge. _Enough to get to Bright Moon_ , _at least_ , she thinks, revving the engine. Again, the Woods guide her and, as her radio crackles on to ask for a status report, she hopes that the Woods delay her squad.

Gently, she pulls the letter from Adora’s clenched fingers. This is the last of their correspondence. If only Adora had listened. Why didn’t she just listen? She didn’t have to die.

Hot tears pour from her eyes, but her hand stays steady on the steering.

To their credit, the guards at the gates of Bright Moon raise their weapons as she approaches. Their halberds gleam razor-sharp in the moonlight.

“Halt!” she hears in a woman’s voice. “Wait… what do you have there? Is that – “

Catra leaps from the skiff and kneels, laying Adora gently at their feet. “She’s been poisoned. Quicksilver. Please, before it’s too late – “

The guards eye her warily for a moment, but one of them dashes into the castle. Before the other can move to arrest her, Catra darts back toward the woods. She passes the radio on her skiff, crackling with Hordak's rage as Horde teams are assigned to catch her, chase her.

Catra stops and crouches at the edge of the forest. She slips a claw beneath the flap of the envelope and slices it open.

She reads. Her heart withers.

When she finishes, she weeps until Horde soldiers fall upon her.

* * *

Oh, Catra.

When we were young, you were always the first to fight dirty, to stoop low and bring the rest of us down with you. But this. This.

What a final act. Your magnum opus, really.

I write to you from the end – I read your letter and I feel your poison setting fire to my nerves. This is so much worse than last time, and so much better. I really did make my own worst enemy in you, didn’t I? Finding the sword gave me a new beginning, but leaving you spelled my end. Fitting.

Congratulations, Catra. You win. This is everything you ever wanted.

Poisoned ink is clever. You improved on the First Ones work, didn’t you? Last time, it took days for the tremors to set in, but my hands are already starting to shake. I would apologize for how messy my handwriting is becoming, but it’s your fault, really. And it’s so potent – all I had to do is smell it. Props to the Horde scientists. When we were kids, all that stuff went over my head, anyway.

I can feel She-Ra slipping away. You figured out how to corrupt the sword, I think? There was a mission in Dryl, when I was young, that corrupted the sword in a similar but different way. I felt so powerful as She-Ra, then – like I was filled with bottomless rage. This is nothing like that – I am as empty now as she was full. I wonder if you even needed the poison – She-Ra is too much a part of me now. I am helpless without her, anyway.

Even at the close, I can’t help but love you, Catra. And I really did love you – perhaps even before I knew what romance was. I am in awe – I didn’t think that even you could pull off such a long con. I am not even ashamed to be played like this. Expecting this sort of betrayal would be way too paranoid, don’t you think?

I wonder if I’ll be dead by the time you find me. I hope I am. I don’t think I could bear you having to finish this with your own hands.

Ahh. My fingers and toes are numb now, but it’s like they’ve piped full of molten lead. I think I need to sign off soon so that I can prepare myself. Heroes always look so elegantly arranged at their own funerals. I would hate to break tradition.

If you find me, take my body back to Bright Moon. As a favor between childhood friends. I don’t think I’ll be able to pay you back for this one, but I’d appreciate it all the same.

Take care, Catra. If it makes you feel any better, this is always how I pictured it would end. Your claws in my heart, your fangs in my neck.

I never could have killed you, anyway.

Yours,

Adora

* * *

First, they isolate her.

For the first two weeks (she thinks, she didn’t start scratching her sleeps into the wall until the third or fourth), Catra sees nobody aside from the guard who delivers her meals. Underneath their helmet, she can’t even tell who it is. Someone who served under her, surely. Do they recognize her?

She doesn’t want to dwell on idle thoughts, but that’s all she is.

She gets two ration bars, one in the morning and one in the evening. As she eats them, she thinks of fried scup. She thinks about crab. She thinks about Adora, baking bananas and weaving crowns of flowers. Adora drinking coffee. Adora with braided hair. Adora feeding her potatoes, playing the lute. Thoughts and dreams of Adora are all she has, and they carry her.

She hopes that by some miracle of medicine or magic, Adora survived. Perhaps it wasn’t too late, perhaps some latent She-Ra healing kept her alive long enough for the healers to help. It is a desperate hope, but she needs it. It burns like a flame inside of her, and she tends it carefully.

On the fifteenth day, a soldier comes to visit her cell. He flicks his visor open and looks at her, eyes narrowed. She recognizes him – a lieutenant that served under her. “Traitor,” he spits.

Catra glances at him in acknowledgement, then rolls over on her cot. She stares at the smooth, bronze walls. She is a traitor, not just to the Horde, but in the only way that matters. She betrayed Adora.

The next day, the interrogations begin. They ask her why, when, and how long. Sometimes her interrogator is someone she doesn’t recognize, and they treat her as they would any other traitor. Other times, it’s someone she knows. Usually, old rivals. They relish in her hurt.

She admits to herself that she doesn’t really know the answer to their questions. How long? Her whole life, perhaps. When? Was it the first time Adora sent her a letter? Was it the day Adora left her? Did the seed of their love germinate before that, on an unremarkable day that she no longer remembers, yet fertilized it all the same?

She knows why, at least, but they scoff, even when she tries to answer truthfully.

She loves Adora. She’s always loved Adora.

“But you fought against her for years,” they reply. “You tried to destroy her.”

Yes and yes. Catra doesn’t understand it, either. She is a contradiction, an oxymoron. Unsurprising, then, that in the end she killed the only person she ever loved. An old promise floats to the surface of her mind. _I’ll watch your back, and you’ll watch mine._

 _Great fucking job, Catra_ , she thinks, biting back bitter tears.

She gets to know the inside of her cell intimately. Hundreds of feet below ground, there’s not much else to do. She has a bed, which is thankfully no more uncomfortable than her cot as a cadet. A toilet. A flat, green forcefield isolating her from the rest of the world.

 _Well, that’s fine_ , she thinks. _Not like there’s anyone left out there who cares about me._

Occasionally, she catches the eyes of prisoners of war kept in the other cells. They glare at her. She wonders if it’s because they caught wind that She-Ra is dead and that she pulled the trigger. She can’t bear to ask – if she knows if Adora really is dead, there really will be nothing left for her.

After almost ninety days, the interrogations stop. Not because they’re ready to release her, but because they’ve stopped trying to figure out why she betrayed them. _Adora died,_ the logical part of her brain offers unhelpfully. _They don’t need to know anymore_. She shivers and builds a wall around the fragile, dying flame of hope in her heart.

Surprisingly, nobody bothers to execute her. After another few weeks, she starts to wonder if she’s been forgotten about – they keep delivering her meals, but perhaps a glitch in the system erased her prisoner file. Maybe she’ll be here until she dies of old age. Or maybe the Rebellion will win, and they’ll find her down here when they liberate their prisoners of war.

 _At least they’ll finish the job_ , Catra thinks grimly.

One evening, a guard drags her out of her cell and up to command central. The guard stumbles as they push Catra by the interrogation rooms. For a fleeting moment, she contemplates escape. This guard seems clumsy, so even with her hands bound, she might be able to get away. _But then what?_ Catra groans internally as realizes she’s gotten a little too comfortable conversing with herself. _Then nothing_ , she offers. _Then the Rebellion catches me and they do the same, or worse._

Instead – “Where are we going?” she asks.

“Hordak wants to see you,” the guard says in a husky voice. It almost sounds affected, like they have a cold.

“Mm,” Catra murmurs.

Hordak waits for her in his sanctum. He has a triumphant gleam in his eyes – a dread light. Catra is too exhausted to muster any fear in return.

“Your execution has been scheduled for tomorrow,” he says. Catra supposes he probably relished the thought of telling her himself.

“Great,” Catra says, voice flat. “I’m surprised you didn’t get around to it sooner.”

Hordak grins widely, though it looks like more of a grimace. “I wanted to give you one last intelligence briefing, Force Captain.” He nearly spits out the last two words. “We compromised a staff member in Bright Moon who claims that She-Ra hasn’t been seen in months. Despite your betrayal, she is gone.”

Catra sags, but Hordak continues.

“You crossed me for nothing.” Hordak sneers before turning his gaze to the guard who brought her in. “Get her out of my sight.”

Catra crumbles as the guard shoves her out of the room. She _had_ been holding out hope, but it was for nothing. She convinced herself that even if she had to die in this place, if she died with the belief that Adora was out there somewhere, alive and healing, she could accept it.

Now she has nothing.

The guard pushes her back toward the elevator down to the prison, stun baton pressed against her back. Catra tries not to think. She won’t have to, soon enough, and that sounds easier, anyway.

In front of her cell, the guard pauses. “Why did you do it?” they ask gruffly.

“I wanted to save her. Couldn’t even keep from fucking that up, I guess,” Catra mutters. No harm in talking, at this point – it can’t hurt her. It can't hurt Adora, either.

The guard clears their throat and spins her around by the shoulder. Catra sighs. She’s not really up to dealing with guards who want to get their last licks in before her execution, but it’s not like she’s ever been a willing participant.

“I was trying to save you.”

A voice she recognizes. Her ears flick up in shock.

The guard pulls her helmet off, and Catra’s eyes widen.

She sees a ghost.

“What are you doing here, idiot?” Catra hisses. Adora shouldn’t be here. How is she alive? Is she here for Catra? She isn’t worth it, hadn’t she shown Adora that time and time again?

“I came to see you,” Adora says, her voice soft.

“But – your last letter,” Catra starts.

“Did you really think Hordak would have let it slide if you didn’t kill me? He was testing you, Catra. In case someone else found my body, I had to make it look like you really did betray me,” Adora says. “I just wanted to protect you.”

Catra opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She composes herself. “Obviously. I knew that. I just thought that if you were safe, I’d be okay with whatever he did to me.”

Adora shakes her head, giving Catra a crooked smile. “I wasn’t going to let you die for me.”

“You idiot. How’d you even get in here?” Catra asks, giving Adora a light shove. Her brow knits when Adora staggers back.

“I enlisted. It didn’t take me very long to get back up to guard duty, even when I’m…” Adora hesitates.

“You’re not so eloquent in person, are you?” Catra snickers and for a moment, she feels like herself again.

“A friend’s dad let me borrow this pretty great thesaurus,” Adora giggles back.

“You’ll have to show me after we get out of here,” Catra says. “What’s the plan? These cuffs are going to set off an alarm if we try to leave, but I know the quickest way out, so with a little magic, we should – “

“Catra,” Adora cuts her off, her mouth a thin line. “There – there’s no – Hordak wasn’t lying. I’m not She-Ra anymore.” Adora takes a shaky breath and offers Catra a miserable smile. “I’m barely even _me_ anymore. There’s no plan.”

Adora takes Catra’s hands in her own and finally, Catra sees the paleness of her face for what it is – not nervousness, but a sickly pallor. Her hands tremble in Catra’s and her expression looks strained, her cheeks gaunt. She remembers Adora’s earlier clumsiness, the stumble – ataxic, not accidental.

“Oh.” Catra swallows a lump in her throat. “Then…”

“I just wanted to see you one more time,” Adora says gently. _She looks so fragile_ , Catra thinks.

Catra blinks back tears, but nods, lacing her fingers with Adora’s. “What about the war?” she asks.

“Who cares?” Adora shrugs, smiling as tears leak out the corners of her eyes. “Even if I wasn’t… like this. You matter more.”

Catra nods. “Okay. Come on. Let’s not just stand out in the open,” she says, pulling Adora to a corridor.

She mentally reviews the protocols that she helped write herself – every fifteen minutes, the handcuffs check in with the central computer. If a prisoner is outside of their cell, the guards on duty will be dispatched to the prisoner’s location. Attempted escapees are not given a second opportunity.

From here, it would take at least eleven minutes to make it outside, not counting waiting for the elevator. How long has it been since the last check-in? How long would it take for the guards to run here from their office?

Even if they somehow manage to get her handcuffs off, all they have is one stun baton between the two of them. Catra hasn’t worked out in months, and Adora is clearly in no shape to fight. In both their primes this would be scarcely a warmup, but as they are, them against four properly-equipped guards won’t just be a pinch. It will be a massacre.

 _Well_ , she thinks. _It’s not like one more day would make much of a difference, anyway._

“Are we making a break for it?” Adora asks.

Catra shakes her head. “No, if this is… if this is it, let’s just be together for a few minutes. Please?”

Adora nods, and Catra cups Adora’s face with her palms. She draws her in and presses her forehead to Adora’s.

Adora exhales and relaxes into Catra’s gentle touch. “It’s not fair,” Adora admits, finally, her voice shaking. A familiar whine creeps into her voice – a whine Catra used to hear when they talked about ration bar flavors, the temperature of the cadet showers, or Shadow Weaver’s unnecessary punishments, way back at their beginnings. Even at the end, it makes Catra’s heart twinge.

Catra smiles and runs her thumbs along Adora’s cheekbones, brushing away her tears. “I know. But I didn’t even think I’d get to do this again.”

Adora nods and closes her eyes, taking one of Catra’s hands in her own.

Catra’s manacles emit a piercing shriek. Her ears flick about. In the distance, she hears slamming doors and boots pounding on aluminum. They don’t have long.

She inhales.

“I love you,” Catra murmurs. It feels good, despite everything, to say it out loud. She had worried for so long that she wouldn’t ever get a chance to.

Catra feels Adora smile against her palms. “I love you, too,” she whispers back.

Finally together, they await oblivion. The footsteps stop at the outlet of the corridor. Eyes screwed shut, she hears the guards take a knee and the hum of their shock pistols powering on.

Catra wonders how much it will hurt.

A pause.

Then, a voice. A guard’s voice?

“This is Eta-3, we’re going to need backup.”

She frowns. _Backup?_

Catra cracks her eyes open. “A – Adora?” Catra stammers, and Adora’s eyes fly open, burning electric-blue. The air crackles, scented with ozone, superoxide, and radical oxygen, and Adora is bathed in blinding light, a living weapon reborn by sheer determination. 

Look another way, and she is an antediluvian goddess pretending to be a mortal woman. 

Adora draws a sword from the ether and lifts it to the heavens. Catra turns to watch the guards falter. One breaks rank and flees, his boots pounding the ground. A gun clatters loudly to the floor.

Behind her, Adora shouts her battle cry, and the corridor is awash with motes of light. 

Behold She-Ra ** _—_**


End file.
